I had an incredibly horrifying nightmare. I was trapped in a “Hitchcock” movie, even though it was completely unlike Alfred Hitchcock movies in any way. I was simply in the movie, just existing within it, with no sense of being on a movie set: I was also watching myself in the movie on television. In the movie, I was told I had to give Scott Baio oral sex, and I promptly vomited in the fireplace and on the tiles around it. I switched the movie off at that point and went the patio door, where I stood with my squirming Siamese cat (Amy, who was put to sleep in 1995) and I refused to let her go. She finally escaped and I went back to the movie, knowing I had to finish it or else something even worse would happen. Then it seemed like a real Alfred Hitchcock movie, the highly stylized 1950s Hitchcock of Rear Window and North by Northwest.

I hope I never dream about Scott Baio again.

Since I’m almost feeling better again (except for a nagging sore throat which is unrelated to being sick, but probably related to the treatment), I think that last night made up for a lot of lost time dreaming. I had an incredibly busy dreaming night last night in my eleven hours of sleep. (I’d still be sleeping if I didn’t have to go to work today.)

Let the long, complicated dreams begin! These are in two sections: the first is from 11:30 pm – 5:30 am (when I woke up and wrote them down) and part two is 5:30 am – 10:30 am.

—part one—

I was in a zoo with Johnny Depp and a Top Gun-era Tom Cruise. They didn’t really know I was there, but I was. I thought it was very weird that Tom Cruise was there, but I hoped he would play his part successfully. They were both wearing lemon yellow jumpsuits; Johnny looked very nice in his, and I thought to myself “Awww, I got Johnny to wear yellow.” I don’t know why I was so touched by it, but I was. We were walking towards a barn, and we paused for a journalist and photographer to cross our path. We got to the barn, but more importantly, we got to the downed air conditioning duct that was lying on the ground outside. We were supposed to kill a man there, but someone had beat us to it. The guy was dismembered, “torn limb from limb like a dog does to a Ken doll.” Every joint was broken or snapped apart. The journalist came back and opened the air conditioning duct with a laser pen, and we actually saw the remains of the body then. We moved on to the fish hatchery, near the front of the zoo. We went in and opened a car trunk to do something. When we opened it, the smell was horrid and bugs swarmed around us, biting any exposed flesh. We turned to go, but a guy with a gun stopped us. He said he was holding us up because someone held him up. He didn’t really want to harm us, but he felt we were all trapped there together. He wouldn’t let us leave the door without him, and for someone reason, we had to call someone’s attention to where we were in order to leave. We went to the custodian’s cart and pressed the red “help” button. We were patched through to the front offices of the zoo. We went to speak, but a mechanical Indian voice spoke for us automatically as a function of the help button.”I am seeking to find my way out of the park,” said the voice, sounding exactly like Apu from The Simpsons. The racist help desk clerk said, “You’re lost. Consult the map.” It was of no help since we were presumed to be Indian. I punched in code 555, not knowing what would happen. I just said, “I think the fish hatchery is on fire or something.” We left, running out the back door, and we saw fire trucks coming from outside the zoo. We got into a late 1970s model Oldsmobile (me in the back, with the gunman) and waited for the fire trucks.

At an all-girl elementary school, a statute of Hunter S. Thompson greeted students at the entrance. A fourth grader there killed Hunter S. Thompson by shooting Jello pudding mix directly into his veins, thus turning his blood into pudding until it no longer could be pumped through his circulatory system. (Another guy was killed by his own urine, but we couldn’t figure out how that happened. Johnny Depp seemed to think that something else was injected into his liver.) “Wow,” I thought, possibly from the backseat of the car, “Some girl’s going to be really upset that Hunter S. Thompson is dead.” We (no longer Johnny Depp and Tom Cruise, but two females) debated about which of two obese girls would be the one who would turn into a hysterical mess when Hunter S. Thompson’s murder was announced. The two females decided it would be one girl, but I chose the other, known simply as “Fat Doris” after years of teasing. The other girl, I commented, “just wants little girl piano fingers,” meaning, I think, that she would only be upset if someone like Andrew Lloyd Webber was murdered. After someone in the school hallway laughed and twiddled their fingers in delight of my analysis (this was just a single image; I was never in the school, but I saw this anyway), we all looked on the front lawn as Fat Doris attempted to run and hug the statue. There were two girls trying to put Fat Doris in handcuffs. I then looked at the two females who had said that it would be the “little girl piano fingers” obese girl that would be upset, and the two females shrank down to three feet tall and shared one wheelchair: “We were going to win web awards, but I think we’re of a pretty small stature,” they said in unison just like the twin Japanese girls from Mothra.

Some female friends and I were friends with Jennifer Lopez. J-Lo had two baby girls and four bathrooms; she had to use three of the bathrooms to get ready to go out. She was dating Johnny Knoxville, and I had fun making up headlines for the tabloids: “J-Lo leaves one jackass for another ‘Jackass,’” referring to P. Diddy, of course. J-Lo had Melanie Griffith-brand underwear. We kept discussing going to a diner an hour north of J-Lo’s house. We finally got there (after J-Lo took forever getting ready) and found an abandoned bowling alley/lounge. Our dinner was catered, and I helped bring in broccoli and something else. I accidentally sat the broccoli in whipped cream instead of the ranch dressing. The chef joked, “Most of what we’re eating could be stored in the desk drawer of the average dieter.”

I was on a photo shoot with Matt’s mom (Ellen) and sister (Barb). I was wearing a pink boa, Mardi Gras beads, a silver wig, and other fru-fru things. There was a buffet at the shoot and I got a soft sugar cookie with one-inch-high frosting, chocolate chips, and cookie dough nuggets: as I selected one, I said, “Normally I’m not hungry, but I just can’t resist” like I was in some stupid commercial. Back at the table, Barb was about ready to eat all the cheese dip. I said, “I didn’t see the cheese fries or else I wouldn’t have gotten the cheese dip too.”

The post office had 3-D (or holographic) stamps that morphed from three flying falcons to a fencepost and back again. I wondered if they were self-incriminating, but I have no idea what I meant by that.

—part two—

Matt and I went shopping for a hot tub for my deck. I really just wanted one to use my inner tube in with jets that would make me spin in circles. We went to a store with lots of different types of chairs, and I started to look at hammocks. Matt told the salesman, “We bought replacement seats for the Suburban here, so we know our way around. Thanks anyway.”

I went to my grandparents to see how the “exhibit change” was going. I guess they had some sort of amateur zoo. I peeked under one tarp and saw a large rectangular trampoline. There was a raccoon staring at me from a cage slightly beyond the trampoline and I thought about how cute raccoons jumping on a trampoline would be. I peeked under a different tarp, and it was a circular trampoline. I figured that they got rid of the black bear they had. As a pet, they had a bobcat they called “Wildcat.” Grandpa told me that they would be happy to keep my hot tub or hammock there if I wanted to. Grandpa walked into the house, drinking straight from a bottle of Wild Turkey. Grandma (who died in August) walked by, drinking an bottle of something else. Then Dad walked by, and he was drinking Southern Comfort straight. I was thirsty, so I followed them into the house to get a Diet Coke. They only had alcohol or A&W Diet Sweet Ale. I decided to pass.

I was at a roller rink, and since I can’t roller skate, I went over to the DJ booth and went through their CDs. They had a whole bunch of Japanese import Cartoon Network CDs on sale for $9.99. I couldn’t really tell what was on any of them since they had no pictures except for the Cartoon Network logo, except for one with Hello Kitty and one called “Powerpuff Girls Radio Hits.” All of the covers were hot pink with light pink Japanese characters.

I went to the doctor, and they were going to weigh me since one of the medicines they put me on usually made people gain a lot of weight. I said that that probably wouldn’t be a problem since I don’t get hungry or eat much anymore. I got on the scales and the nurse just kept saying, “This is impossible” and refusing to weigh me.

I was housesitting for someone, and I took the two days’ worth of mail downstairs to sort. I had turned off all the lights because I didn’t want anyone to know I was there and invite themselves over. While sorting the mail (there was quite a few people that lived there), I heard noises. I went upstairs, sneaking, trying not to be noticed, and Jake was throwing a party on one of the decks. It was a subdued party, mostly just people sitting around and talking. I opened the door and stuck my head out and told Jake “hi” so that he knew I knew they were there. Then I went back inside and hid in the back bathroom for no reason.

Kathleen had moved to an 2-bed/2-bath apartment so I could move in with her. I was in Newton explaining it all to Mom; Dad was taking a long bath upstairs and Grandpa was taking a long bath downstairs. There was Hi-C and Coca Cola on the table. I decided to wait and take a long bath before I left.

Somehow I knew that the guy from Letterman who always sings “who let the dogs out” was trying to kill me. And I knew that a woman named Ann Watson was also going to be killed.

I saw that guy (Alan?) following me, so I stopped in this parking lot near a huge, glistening, mirror-covered church. I jumped out of the car and threw my Pokemon backpack at the car, but it went up instead of sideways. Alan opened his passenger side window and started screaming at me. By this time I was flat on the concrete.

I got up while Alan was backing up to run over me, and I ran into this run-down building across the street from the church. I ran down to the basement and found a note from Ann written on the door and found her inside. We then heard creaks upstairs. I left her there (she was too scared to move) and went upstairs. I didn’t find anything, so I ran outside. It was now dark and I think I was in Memphis. There were two black kids with bandanas over their mouths and black knit hats. They were coming for me, so I ran up to them and hit them with my taser. I then ran up the street and went further west, then north. I found a hollowed out, burnt version of Graceland. Some bystander told me it was going to become an orphanage. I told him Elvis would have wanted it that way.

***

I was at the Center on the concrete in front of Studio 3 talking with Anne Coffin about different ways to enroll when all the old MFA crew came out. Everyone hushed when we started talking about Elizabeth getting a new perm.

I was at Target, then I left, walking “home.” These two guys started following me. I stopped at the next house, where there was a policeman sitting in the driveway. I told him what was going on. He chided me for walking by myself. He called Linden and had him walk with me so I wouldn’t get raped.

I filled up my truck (?) and asked for help from David C. to put water in it.

I was in a hospital, talking with Grainger about internet marketing. His email address was knowlege@_____.net. I told him it was a bad idea to have a misspelling in his email address.

Then I was in a class. The guy next to me pointed out a typo in an internet ad. Then he started talking about Nazis on the internet. I say, “yeah, can you imagine what kind of a complex they’d get if they spelled it NATZIES?” No one laughed. Mom went outside.

Then Mom was in a hospital bed. We talked a lot about music. I went to the closet and made her a bowl of lentil soup. I saw a guitar and thought about picking it up, but I knew I couldn’t play. The music stand belonged to Blake. I took mom her soup and she only ate two bites. I went back to the closet to put Saran Wrap on it. I started to tear up because I knew she was dying, but I wanted to be strong for her. Mom started singing in a voice at least four octaves lower than lower then normal: it was a very low, very mournful song that made me burst into tears.

I was watering the trees and stuff around the patio staircase at the Summitlawn house when I saw movement. It was my dead (put to sleep on the friday before spring break in march 1995) siamese cat Amy. Amy was alive, but in her old, thin state right before we had to put her to sleep. I grabbed her and wrapped my arms around her. I took her inside to Mom, who was lying in bed and somewhat ill. I gave her Amy. Mom initially refused, so I laid Amy down on the bed. “She’s just going to die. It hurts too much to touch her.”

Some miscellaneous political pundit was sitting in the corner of the hospital room. Mom and I were there with Grandma, who was crumpled on the floor much like I imagine the rehab hospital staff found her the morning of her stroke. The pundit was babbling about “See? This is why we need a patient’s bill of rights! And a prescription plan for seniors!” Then I turned to Mom and said, “Grandma’s never going to forgive us for burying her alive.”

It was entirely to creepy to believe.